Laughter and Pennies
by Sawlt to Your Suger
Summary: Crowley has some questions he wants answered. "But it doesn’t quite work when the people holding hands are the same sex, right? It’s not quite a cliché then, is it?" Thoughtful fluff. /CA needs AirConditioning, sillies./ Long-drabble.


_Ok. First off, once again, I wrote fan fiction instead of homework. Luckily I didn't have much homework to do after I wrote this, and I finished the work before now, so I'm done._

_**DISCLAIMER:** If I were a genius with two personalities, I would have created Good Omens. Alas, I am neither genius, nor two minds within one body._

_Pretty much, I love the idea of holding hands. Always have. When I have more time, I think I'll write a parallel/sequel long-drabble focusing on the hands. Or maybe it'll be a different pairing. Laugher and Pennies is thoughtful. I really had no idea what would happen, but this is what happened. Part of the inspiration was last week's New York Times Magazine front page article about the married, young, gay men in Massachusetts. At least the inspiration for the first few questions and the mention of clichés._

_Oh. And yes, it's fluff. But it's thoughtful fluff! Yay for K's._

_And lastly: this fanfiction is for Lotus (aka i.write.fic.not.tragedies, sometimes known as elln3ss) because she always gets it right. :)_

_Enjoy, loves!_

_--(my name is) Inconsequential._

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**Laugher and Pennies**

Holding hands.

A cliché if he ever knew one, sort of. But it doesn't quite work when the people holding hands are the same sex, right? It's not quite a cliché then, is it?

Questions.

Crowley doesn't really like questions. Unless they're rather mean, and put people on the spot—he especially enjoys it when they cringe or wince as though in pain without him doing more than speak. But now that he's asking these questions, to himself no less, _he's_ the one cringing and blinking. _He's_ the one enslaved by his thoughts, trapped and unable to say a thing.

Sometimes, Crowley thinks he'll go crazy. He wouldn't be at all surprised if someone stepped up to him and told him "You're insane" in some whisper-frozen hiss unlike any sound _he'd_ ever made.

But it never happens. There are times when he expects for it to, but of course, it doesn't. Life can't be predictable beyond death and taxes. (Crowley's quite proud of this actually; what with being on the same level as the great Azrael and all. Taxes were a genius invention.)

The index finger that's twined around the demon's thumb slips a bit, sliding. Without thinking, Crowley grips tighter, shifting so that the hand falls against his once again; no danger of gravity forcing the two appendages apart. The other hand squeezes back, and Crowley nearly jumps.

An angelic laugh filters down through the demon's heap of wonders. Yet another cliché. He tries to block out any more strange questions.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

It takes Crowley a moment to realize that this particular question is not in his mind.

"Pardon?"

"Penny for your thoughts, dear?" Aziraphale repeats, patience the virtue any decent human being ought to have, and one that no angel can go without.

"Oh! Um…" Crowley, despite the number of inquiries teaming within his mind, cannot voice any of them. He settles on something simple instead, something he knows the answer to. Except that the moment he asks it, he realizes that this is the one question he desperately _must_ know the answer to.

"Angel…"

"Yes, Crowley?"

"Why in Go- in Sat- on Earth are we holding hands?"

"Well, we couldn't very well hold hands in Heaven or Hell now could we?"

"Angel…"

"Although I suppose we could, if we really wanted to. I mean, we really wanted to hold hands here right? What makes down there, or up there, or wherever, so much different? Why not?"

Crowley, being a demon, has no virtues whatsoever, least of all patience.

"Angel. That was sort of what I was asking."

More angelic laughter.

"No, it wasn't. You were asking why. I'm asking why not. Anyway, I already said the answer."

The demon is sure he's going to go crazy now. He's furiously awaiting the whisper to formally let him know that he's lost his mind. The angel's knees look funny in corduroy. All the lines.

"Oh, Crowley," sighs Aziraphale, wringing his hands, though his fingers still loop amongst the demon's. Said demon looks back up, slit-pupil eyes flashing with a bright sheen of light. Aziraphale quickly leans forward, soft lips greeting the frowning, angry ones for a brief second. "Why did I do that?"

Crowley blinks rapidly.

"Probably because you wanted to, you rotten angel."

"Exactly, love." Aziraphale holds up their hands; palms molded and fingers clasped together. "We're holding hands because we want to. And I know no reason why we shouldn't."

The demon squeezes the angel's hand again, silent thanks. And, after a moment, kisses him once on the cheek. For good measure.

Sometimes, Crowley thinks he'll go crazy. And sometimes, he sits around and waits to be carted off to an asylum.

And most times, it's Aziraphale who says something, and Crowley realizes that there is no whisper, no asylum bed waiting for him. Just Aziraphale's smooth hand and savory lips, and many hundreds of questions and thoughts.

Some of which will never be answered.

But Aziraphale can always try. And he always gets it right.

...

_xfin._

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_Review, please?_

_What did you think, dearies?_

_--moi. :3_


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